


You caught me at just the right time (until you couldn't)

by 14million_constellations



Series: The joys and tribulations of being a superhero in the 21st century [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, A BAD case of the sniffles, Cold, Cold and flu symptoms, Crying, Cuddling, EVERYTHING IS GREAT, Fainting, Fever, Fluff, Head Aches, Heat Stroke, Heat stroke symptoms, Helicopter Parent Tony Stark, Hypothermia, I sincerely don't care about canon, I swear that every fricken chapter will involve puke, I will do whatever I please, I'm gonna be honest, Irondad, Karen doesn't understand humor, Minor Concussion, Mission Gone Wrong, NOT STARKER - Freeform, Nicknames, Pepper is the best wife, Peter almost kicks it, Peter almost pulls a Captain-America, Peter blacks out, Peter calls Tony Dad, Peter gets lost, Peter has the sniffles, Platonic Relationships, Poisoning, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Tony, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter Parker, Sometimes Peter is just an idiot, Spiders can’t thermoregulate, These chapters will get increasingly worse, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony calls Peter his son, Tony lives, Tony maybe acting OOC, Tony watches Queer Eye, Vomit, Worried Tony Stark, and Tony has to pick him up off the floor, car crash, carsickness, cold and flu, except for Peter in this fic, last chapter takes place around Christmas, major Tony and Peter feels, migraines, minor delusion, more vomiting, sick, spiderson, stab wounds, will add tags as chapters are updated, wumph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25520590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14million_constellations/pseuds/14million_constellations
Summary: “I thought Spider-Man didn’t get sick,” Tony said, smiling.“And I thought Tony Stark didn’t care,” Peter says, now not only looking like death but sounding like it, and Tony frowned. Peter noticed. “Sorry. You do care. I know you do.--or--The 5 times Tony realized Peter was sick, and the 1 time it was almost too late.
Relationships: Tony Stark & Peter Parker
Series: The joys and tribulations of being a superhero in the 21st century [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708669
Comments: 41
Kudos: 564





	1. Fever

“Are we there yet?” 

Tony laughs under his breath, his eyes keeping on the road as the boy groans away in the set next to him. “For the seventeenth time, no. Still a few hours left.” 

“I think you said that back in Worcester.” 

“Yeah, well, this time I mean it.” 

Peter sighed, slumping down in his seat. 

“Look, Kid, when I asked if you wanted to come and sit in on my MIT presentation, I didn’t expect this much whining.” 

Peter turned to the billionaire, his eyebrows knitting together in frustration. “I thought we would take a plane… not drive across America.” 

When Tony laughed this time, it was louder than before. “For one, Massachusetts is nothing compared to the country,” Tony says as Peter mumbles under his breath, “and I thought that you would like a road trip. You were bouncing the whole way to Boston.” 

“Yeah, but that’s because I was excited. Now though...” 

“Well, aren’t you excited to get back home?” Tony asks, stealing a glance at Peter. The kid wasn’t even looking at him, his gaze glued to the highway in front of them; road stretching on for infinity. “I thought you said Ned had a boy’s weekend planned. Or is his name Ted…? or Ed…” 

“It’s Ned,” Peter says, cutting him off and earning and chuckle. “And yeah… a boy’s weekend just means we will complete our lego set and eat pizza.” 

“Well that sounds like fun,” Tony says, trying to make the subject more positive. “You always try to eat all of _my_ pizza when we order it.” 

“That’s because you eat so slow,” Peter grumbles. “You just leave it out, tempting me with it.” 

Tony laughs once more, and he smiles when he can hear light chuckling in the passenger seat. They fall into a comfortable silence then, Peter leaning forward and turning up the music so it filled the empty space between them. 

Tony thought of himself as a young teenager, driving the same trip Peter and him were on right now. Three times a year he would begrudgingly take the same route home from Boston and back to visit family in New York. He became pretty well acquainted with the drive back then, and now he realized that he was driving it without thinking. 

Almost as if the route were as perfectly memorized as the lines in his palm. Something he could trace with his eyes closed, and back again. Burned into his mind and proving to be sheer muscle memory. 

He imagined Peter going to MIT. He imagined driving the route to see the boy when he needed, and then the kid driving it himself. Peter becoming as well acquainted with it as Tony, and then showing it to his own child when the time came. 

“What are you smiling about?” 

Peter’s voice broke Tony of his thoughts, and the man looked to the kid. Peter was wearing a sly smirk, his eyes narrowed as if he was trying to read Tony’s mind. 

“Nothing,” Tony says, realizing too late that his grin lingered. 

Peter just watched him, not bothering to hide his look of confusion. 

\----

They stop for dinner at a restaurant Tony remembered stopping at when he was younger. The second they pulled into the parking lot, Peter’s whole demeanor changed. 

“What…” Peter’s voice trailed as he squinted, his narrowed eyes taking in the neon lights of the diner. “What is this place?” 

“Thought you could use some dinner,” Tony says, shutting off the car. 

“So you took me to The Frosty Palace from _Grease?”_

Tony just shook his head. “Come on, Kid, it’s not that old.” 

“I think this place is older than you, Mr. Stark, and you were here for the dinosaurs.” 

Tony reached over and pinched Peter’s forearm. It wasn’t hard, but it still made the kid yelp and jump a bit. “You deserved that,” Tony says, watching Peter start to laugh. “You might have fun. I used to go to this place with Rhodey when he would come and pick me up for school. Sure, the place could be looking better, but it’s about nostalgia.” 

“You know I’m all about nostalgia,” Peter mutters, following Tony’s lead and climbing out of the Audi. 

The inside of the restaurant is pretty much exactly as Tony remembered, and he doesn’t know if he should take that as a good or bad sign. Booths line a wall, their pink upholstery cracking. Slightly faded pictures of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe hang over each table. Opposite to them is a long bar, and despite its many stools, only one man sits there as he sips his coffee. 

A waitress bustles behind the bar, her wiry hair pulled back and her eyes tired. Tony and Peter take a booth in the middle, a picture of Marlon Brando hanging above it. 

“This place hasn’t changed,” Tony says, ignoring the obvious _woosh_ as the cushioned bench beath him deflates. “Rhodey and I used to stop here on the way too and from Boston.” 

“Ben would sometimes take me to a place like this when I was younger,” Peter says, a smile finally forming over his lips. “That was the year he decided we were going to get into baseball. He signed me up for tee-ball, and of course, he just had to be the coach. We were terrible, but we would go and get milkshakes after at that diner… so, I didn’t _really_ hate it.” 

Tony laughs along with the boy, absorbing his joy and watching the amusement spread over Peter’s features. He didn’t talk much about Ben, but when he did, it was always happy and given in great quantities. Tony always took as much as he could and learned from it -- a part of him hating that he didn’t know the Parker’s sooner. He was sure that Ben could have taught him a fair amount when it came to raising Peter. 

Their moment is burst when the waitress approaches the table with a pot of coffee and two mugs. Her smile is friendly, and she pours one for Tony but takes back Peter’s cup when he declines. 

“Just water for me,” Peter says, and she nods. 

Her name tag reads _Doris._ “How are you two tonight?” She asks, looking more rundown in person. 

“We’re good,” Tony says, “coming back from Boston.” 

Doris nods again, humming. “Had fun I hope.” 

“Just showing my kid around MIT…” Tony gestures loosely to Peter. “Looking at possible schools for the future.” 

Doris’ eyes widen, a sharp whistle escaping her lips. “MIT, wow. You must be a bright bulb.” 

Peter smiles, immediately opening his mouth to say something self-sacrificial and humble, but Tony cuts him off. “Yes… he’s top of his class. His Aunt and I are very proud.” 

Peter just blushes, trying to hide his beaming grin by burying his nose in the menu. They order -- burgers, fries, and milkshakes -- before Doris scurries off to the back. She moved as if she was in a hurry, although Tony could count every patron on one hand. 

“Think she knew who you were?” Peter asked, stirring the ice in his water with his straw. 

“Nah,” Tony says, folding his napkin into an airplane. “I don’t assume they get much of anything up here. You know, considering the fact that every poster here is from the fifties and I’ve now heard this Elvis song three times.” 

“That doesn’t really answer my question.” 

“You know what I mean. It seems like this part of the world seems pretty stuck in its ways. I don’t assume anyone in a sixty-mile radius knows who I am.” 

Tony finishes his plane, holding it up for Peter to see and ignoring the way the wings sag lifelessly. When he threw it, it simply fell onto the checkered tabletop in defeat, and Peter broke into peels of laughter. 

“Aw, come on,” Tony says, “it didn’t even try.” 

The food arrives quickly, and despite the appearance this place gave, the meal did look pretty good. As soon as Doris was gone, Peter and Tony both dove in. Neither of them even gave each other enough time to speak in between bites, and Tony realized that he was much hungrier than he thought. 

Peter finishes first, but then again, the boy could have probably eaten three more burgers before Tony had cleared his plate. Satisfied, they push back their plates and pay the check, walking from the restaurant, Tony’s arm wrapped around Peter’s shoulder. 

“On the road again?” Peter asks, sounding disappointed. 

“On the road,” Tony confirms, rubbing Peter’s forearm before the boy ducks into the car. 

Peter leans into the seat, watching the diner out the window as Tony backs out. They take back off down the highway, and as they move along, Tony starts to realize just how true his statement was from earlier. 

_They really are in the middle of nowhere._

The most modern thing about this part of the state had to be the highway they were driving on, but even Tony knew the only people who regularly took this route were truckers and the odd passer-by -- like them. 

They keep quiet, both seemingly satisfied by the food in their bellies, and Tony sang softly to the music piping through the speakers. Tony just assumed Peter was resting, and it wasn’t until the world grew dark did Tony finally notice how _un-Peter_ Peter was acting. 

“Hey, Bud?” Tony asked, trying to get some kind of reaction out of the kid. “Peter… I know you’re awake. I know how you breathe when you sleep.” 

He’s taking in now how labored Peter’s breathing was. Not even and spaced like when he normally slept… instead, it was rough and warm. 

“Pete, come on…” 

Peter suddenly turned his head towards Tony, and in the light from passing street lamps, Tony could make out the flushed face of his kid and the tear-filled eyes. 

“Shit,” Tony swore, startled, and in a new flush of panic, he swerves to the side and parked on the shoulder. Only when they were safe did he turn on a light. 

Peter looked even worse now; his face sullen and red. His eyes squinted and wet. Tony could see the sweat building on his brow, and he knew that sooner or later, the kid would have to throw up. 

“Buddy,” Tony reaches over and pushes damp curls off his forehead. His skin was burning under his calloused palm, and even without a thermometer, Tony knows the boy is developing a fever. “Shit, you’re burning.” 

“I’m just carsick… Or it's food poisoning...” Peter says, his face paling at the last thought. His voice was too soft. “I’m-- I’m fine.” 

“Pete… I don’t want to say you look like death but…” 

“I’m _fine,”_ Peter assures. “I’ll be good. Stop worrying.” 

Tony starts taking the kid’s hoodie off without prompting. Peter allows it, helping him by shrugging out of the sweater. 

“I thought Spider-Man didn’t get sick,” Tony said, smiling. 

“And I thought Tony Stark didn’t care,” Peter says, now not only looking like death but sounding like it, and Tony frowned. Peter noticed. “Sorry. You do care. I know you do.” 

Tony cups the side of the boy’s face, taking in his kid and how Peter leans into the older man’s touch. Tony’s breath stutters as he draws it in through his nose, and he runs the side of his thumb over Peter’s cheekbone. 

He waits until Peter is comfortable against his seat before easing back onto the highway. 

“We’re stopping somewhere tonight,” Tony says, knowing that it was going to be hard to find a place to stay out here. “There’s no way we can drive with you like this.” 

“No, Mr. Stark--” 

“Don’t fight me on this kid… FRIDAY, find us a place. Somewhere close, but just make sure no one was murdered there,” he laughs softly before continuing, “and book a room.” 

_“Will do, Boss,”_ FRIDAY’s voice said from the dashboard. 

It took her a few minutes, but eventually, a location popped up on their GPS, and Tony set off with their new directions. The place was rated four stars, and FRIDAY managed to get them a room on the ground level, farthest down and quickest to get into. 

The only problem was it was an hour and fifteen minutes away. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter’s small voice suddenly floats towards Tony, and Tony tore his eyes towards the boy for a second.

“Pete, you have nothing to be sorry about,” Tony says, his tone stiff. Even though it had only been a few minutes, Peter seemed to look worse than he did before. 

“But I’m delaying the trip.” 

“Screw the trip. You look like crap and being a car is not the cure for a fever,” Peter shrunk back in his seat, and Tony’s heart clenched. “Besides, I’m tired and no one should be driving sleepy. We can get some sleep, and we’ll be home tomorrow.” 

Peter nodded, his smile small and forced. Tony could see the pain creased behind his expression. Tony tried to ignore it, turning back to the road and continuing on, the only thought on his mind being to help Peter. 

\----

They are twenty minutes away from their hotel when Peter suddenly shoots up in his seat and tells Tony to pull over. Tony can tell the boy is going to be sick without being told and pulls onto the shoulder once again. 

Peter pushes open his door, his seatbelt hardly off, before retching onto the gravel below. Tony jumps from his seat, running around the front of the car and taking the boy in his arms once he gets a break. 

“O’ny,” Peter mutters, and it’s jarring to hear him use Tony’s first name. “O’ny, I--” 

Peter cuts himself off with a gag and then he’s leaning over Tony’s arms, spitting up his dinner and painting the ground with bile. The light from the inside of the car barley illuminates what is happening outside the vehicle, and if Tony had vomit on his shoes, he didn’t care. 

Peter must have though, because he was obviously trying to hold it back and was losing the battle. “Don’t fight it,” Tony says, rubbing his back and holding the boy more securely. “Pete, bud, don’t hold it back.” 

Peter finally heaves one last time, gagging and spitting up bile and saliva. When he’s done, he leans back into Tony’s chest and shivers. Tony brushes back curls that have been plastered to the boy’s forehead, the heat of Peter’s skin burning him despite how much the kid was shivering. 

“You okay now?” Tony asked after a minute. 

“I’m okay,” Peter says drowsily, wincing as he nods. 

“Okay,” Tony then helps Peter back into the car. “Easy, kiddo,” he says as Peter groans, and then Tony is reaching over to buckle him in. 

“Thank you,” Peter mutters, his eyes already closing. 

“Of course, bud.” 

They reach the hotel soon after, and lucky for them there is a tiny convenience store next door. Tony parks the car, taking note of how Peter was still sleeping and runs over to the store, knowing that if he did wake and need him, Peter could always just call him on his phone. 

The store is empty, save for a cashier sitting behind the counter, and reading a magazine. The young woman hardly even looks up at him when he enters, and he gets to gathering the things he needs. 

Ginger ale, a bottle of Gatorade, a thermometer, and a bottle of fever reducers, even though the medicine probably wouldn’t work for Peter. The cashier doesn’t pay him any mind as he purchases his items, his foot tapping impatiently as she rang through his stuff. 

Once the receipt finally printed, he grabbed the items and ran out the door. Luckily, Peter was still asleep when he reached the car, and Tony gathered up their bags in less of a rush. 

He slung Peter’s backpack over his shoulder, and then opened the passenger door quietly. “Pete,” he said, shaking Peter’s shoulder softly. “Pete, wake up, kiddo.” 

Peter startled awake, looking up at Tony with bleary eyes and a dopey smile formed over his lips. “Hi.” 

“Hey, bud. We’re here now. Can you get up?” 

Peter pushed himself out of the car, and Tony instantly wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Together they walked to the front, checked in, and grabbed their keys. As soon as they opened their door, Peter was collapsing onto the nearest bed. 

“Okay, Pete, let’s get you all sorted out…” 

Tony puts the bags down on the second bed, along with the items he purchased from the store. He picks up the thermometer and turns to Peter, the boy’s eyes slipping closed and a pang of guilt seeping through as Tony thinks about how he will have to wake him. 

“Come on, bud, we gotta take your temperature.” 

Peter groans, the act of opening his eyes looking as though it saps most of his energy. Two bleary eyes finally peer up in Tony’s direction, and the man swallows back his worry. Peter’s eyes were glassy and full of pain; the look foreign on the kid, but all too recognizable to Tony. 

“Alright, sorry, bud,” Tony murmurs, sitting on the side of the bed and slipping the metal bit under Peter’s tongue. The boy grimaces at the taste and cold, but he doesn’t make a move to spit it out. 

The thermometer finally beeps, and Tony takes it back gingerly. Peter snakes his lips, groans, and shuts his eyes. He doesn’t get much rest though, because he snaps them back open as soon as Tony hisses through his teeth. 

“What?” Peter grumbled, his expression twisted. 

Tony looks to his mentee. “102. Manageable, but not the best.” 

“Not the best,” Peter agrees softly. 

“Best to get some sleep,” Tony says, already pulling Peter’s shoes off. Peter tries to help, but he only lazily kicks his foot, narrowly missing Tony’s kneecap, and the man laughs. “Just let me, kiddo.” 

Peter sighs and shuts his once more. “Wan’ me to take ‘em?” 

“Take what?” 

“Meds. Drink.” 

Tony huffs through a chuckle. “Yeah. Meds, definitely. We can give you a few and see how you hold them down.” 

Once Tony has tucked Peter into the bed, he cracks open the bottle of fever reducers he bought, as well as getting the kid’s water bottle from his bag. “Now these are unfortunately not the super-hero brand we have at home, but I don’t want you to take too many in case you throw up. So…” 

“It’ll be okay,” Peter says, forcing himself into a half sit with a grimace. He holds out his hand and Tony shakes a few more pills than recommended into the kid’s palm. 

Peter throws them back with a shallow swig of water and then falls back into his previous position. Tony could now tell how hard the boy had been working to keep himself awake because as soon as he was back under the covers, his eyes were closed, and his breathing evened. 

He was asleep before Tony could even say goodnight. 

\----

Tony was woken by the rough crash of the toilet seat snapping against the tank, and his poor kid hurling his guts out. 

Tony throws back the stiff covers of his bed and stumbles towards the bright light falling out of the open bathroom door. He rubs an eye, trying to blink away sleep and get a better view of the teenager hunched over the toilet bowl. 

“Aw, Pete…” Tony says, sitting down on the lip of the tub and placing a hand on Peter’s sweaty back. 

A whine escapes the back of Peter’s throat; if it was directed at Tony or at the pain in his stomach, the billionaire didn’t know. Nonetheless, he wasn’t actively protesting the touch, so Tony didn’t try to pull away. 

Tony tried not to focus on the shudder that passed over the kid’s spine every time he retched, but it was hard to avoid staring at the tears rolling over Peter’s bright red cheeks. Instead of sitting and watching, Tony pushed himself up and grabbed an off-white washcloth from the shelf. He wet the fabric with cool water and started wiping the overwhelming amount of sweat off of Peter’s forehead. 

Peter hiccuped once more, spit into the bowl, and lowered his head onto the plastic toilet seat. He blinks at Tony sleepily, and Tony holds his cheek for a second before helping the boy into a different spot. 

He ends up leaning Peter against the tub. To keep the boy from falling over, Tony slides in beside him to thoroughly wedge the kid in between himself and the toilet. That’s when Tony realized how small the bathroom was. The two of them shoulder to shoulder filled the floor space. 

“You okay, bub?” Tony says. Peter’s head falls to his mentor’s shoulder, and Tony reaches up to brush away some of the hair plastered to the kid’s forehead. 

Peter giggles drowsily. 

“What?” Tony asks, smiling. 

“Bub.” 

“Yeah, _bub._ It okay if I call you that?” 

“Sure. Jus’ makes you soun’ like a dad.” Peter slurs. 

Tony stares at his kid for a second, the boy’s eyes blinking slowly. “My mom used to call me that. She used to call me Bubba, and Baby… Bambino.” 

Peter hums, one of his hands coming up to grasp at the front of Tony’s shirt. The act is so child-like that it makes Tony’s heart burst with paternal affection. 

“I like it,” Peter’s voice is so quiet, Tony is surprised that he is still awake. 

“Yeah? Which one.” 

“All of ‘em.” 

Tony looks down at the hand grasping his shirt, then up to the sickly face of the kid who has stolen his heart. Without thinking, he wraps his arms around the teen and pulls him close. Peter immediately curls up against his mentor, Tony wrapping his body around him in turn. 

The boy’s breathing has started to even, and although the position isn’t comfortable in the slightest, Tony wouldn’t disturb the sleeping child for a second. 

He leans his head down, planting a kiss on the top of Peter’s curls. 

“Night, bubba. Feel better.”


	2. Cold

Tony stared at the scarf and wondered if he should bother running outside and giving it to Peter. The boy already has one on, but this one is thicker, and part of Tony worries about how the cold might eat away at Peter’s immune system. 

Through the window, Tony can see people running around the snow-covered fields of the compound. Clint and Sam are taking turns pelting each other with snowballs. Steve laughs from a distance, only to jump out of the way when one sails in his direction. 

A little bit farther back, Peter and Wanda build a snowman. Wanda rolls the head, while Peter takes his time stacking the body. Tony smiles as he watches his kid, the child content with packing down the snow with damp mitts. 

Tony grips the scarf a little tighter than before, finally deciding that Peter is fine and he shouldn’t worry. He steals one last look at his kid -- Peter and Wanda both now lifting the head onto the top of the snowman -- and turns towards the kitchen. He’s got some cocoa to make. 

Tony is pouring the drink into mugs when the elevator doors swing open and chattering voices pour into the common room. 

“Hey,” Steve says, walking over to where Tony is with their drinks. “These for us?” 

“No, Cap, I was just gonna drink seven cups of hot chocolate myself,” Tony says, taking a long sip of cocoa. “You know what a fiend I am for sugar.” 

Steve’s smile falls slightly before he takes a mug and nods. “Right. Yeah.” 

Tony looks away before anyone else can see his smirk. 

Clint and Sam take spots at the kitchen island, and Tony watches them, now confused. “Where’s Pete and Wanda?” 

“Still outside,” Sam answers, not looking up from where he scrolls through his email. 

Tony walks to the window. Out on the lawn, Peter and Wanda continue to play in the snow. Their first snowman is finished, but they have taken to creating a whole family of snow people amongst the first. 

Peter has removed his scarf and tied it around one of their necks. Tony can’t help but worry, and his fingers itch to go and grab the other scarf that now hangs over the back of the couch. He watches as Peter takes off his knitted hat, a mop of curls springing loose in the winter chill, and he places it on a snowperson’s head. 

“Don’t worry, Tony,” Clint says. Tony looks over his shoulder to see the archer watching him. “They’re fine-- they’re kids. We should let them have kid-fun for once.” 

Tony nods, but it’s mostly for himself. “Right. They should have fun.” 

He doesn’t remember that spiders can’t thermoregulate before it’s too late. 

\----

Peter has been outside for half an hour and his drink has gone cold. 

Tony taps his fingers against his own mug, his gaze glued to the window. From his spot perched at the counter, he doesn't have a proper view of the teenagers playing outside, but he can only imagine. 

Clint is currently beating Steve’s ass in Mario Kart, and every so often, Sam looks away from watching his friends play to stare at Tony. 

“What?” Tony asks when he catches Sam’s eyes for the third time. 

“Have you ever heard of the term “helicopter parenting”, Stark?” Sam asks. 

Tony grumbles. “I’m not being a helicopter parent, Wilson.” 

“They’re teenagers,” Sam says, looking back at the television just in time to see Steve drive his car over a cliff. “At least, I think Wanda is… how old is she?” 

“I don’t know, like, nineteen?” Clint says, sticking the tip of his tongue between his teeth. 

Sam shrugs. “My point is that winter won’t kill them.” 

Tony sighs. His fingers resume tapping. 

Four more victory rounds for Clint later and the elevator doors are gliding open with a ding. Tony sits up as if he’s been shocked, and has to hold himself back from running to Peter and patting him down head to toe. 

Instead, he takes the two untouched mugs of cocoa and walks over to the microwave, popping open the door and placing them inside. Tony watches as the cups spin round and round. 

“Who’s winning?” Wanda asks as she saunters in. She starts to unwind her scarf from her neck. 

“Me of course,” Clint says. “You really think Steve could make it past 10th place?” 

“Never did, never will.” 

Peter comes in next. He is only wearing his coat, but even that is unbuttoned. He is missing his scarf, hat, and his mittens. Tony was surprised the kid was still wearing his boots. 

“Hi,” Peter says, waving as he makes his way into the kitchen. 

Tony instantly takes note at how flushed Peter’s skin was. His fingertips were bright red and Tony swallowed his worry. If the kid was that cold outside, then he knew the rush of warmth that came with the indoors would mean that he was now burning. 

“You want to take off your jacket?” Tony asked. 

“Uh, oh… yeah, sure,” Peter shrugs out of his coat, placing it on the island. Despite removing the layers, Peter still seems to shiver and shake. When Tony brings it up, the boy only brushes it off. 

Peter accepts his freshly warmed hot chocolate, before taking a spot beside Steve and accepting the game controller when the Supersoldier admits defeat and calls it quits. Clint just looks happy for a new opponent. 

Tony watches as the round starts, and Peter starts to lag behind. That was strange; if anyone could beat Clint it was Peter. But today… the kid just looked out of it. 

“You good, Pete?” Sam asks. Steve flashes Peter a sideways glance. 

Peter livened for a second. “I’m great.” 

“Good,” Clint says, “so wake up and kick my ass.” 

Peter only chuckles under his breath. 

When they watch a movie later that night, Peter doesn't even fight over rewatching StarWars for the fifth time. He just rests his head on Tony’s shoulder and dozes throughout the film. 

Then when Peter stumbles from the couch and mumbles his good nights, even when everyone is still wide awake, Tony can't help but watch him leave. 

As the elevator doors slide shut, their eyes meet once more, and Peter gives a tired wave. Tony waves back, the feeling of worry and doubt lingering in his gut. 

\----

Tony’s back ached. He had been bent over the open chest of Mark 42 for the past hour, and despite all of his fiddling and fixing, he couldn’t seem to find the reason his suit was acting buggy. 

He leans back with a sigh. His shoulders pop angrily as he stretches his hands out behind his head. “Time, Fri?” Tony asks. 

_ “It is currently 2:04 a.m.” _ FRIDAY responds. 

Tony rubs his hands down his face, groaning. He should really head to bed, as he got less than an hour of sleep the night before, but he also wanted to finish up his work. With a heave, he pulled himself from his chair, reluctantly choosing a partial night of rest over the loss of sanity. 

“Lock it up, Fri,” Tony says as he walks towards the door. 

_ “Will do,” _ she says,  _ “but, Boss, before you go to bed, I suggest checking on Peter.”  _

Tony stops in his tracks. “Peter? Why?” 

_ “I detect a rise in body temperature indicating a small fever. He also is having trouble breathing, and is currently sleeping fitfully.”  _

Tony’s fists curl up in worry, and he thinks back to earlier in the evening. Peter  _ had _ seemed checked out; he slept through the movie; he left early for bed, hardly wishing anyone a goodnight. 

“I’m on it,” Tony says, picking up speed as he makes his way towards the elevator. 

He remembers at the last minute to stop now and grab Peter’s super medication. Regular cough syrup never cut it for the kid, and the last time he had a cold, Tony almost went into cardiac arrest when he walked in on Peter chugging a bottle of Dayquil. 

Tony can hear it as soon as the elevator doors open. Hacking and coughing coming from behind Peter’s door. He doesn't bother being quiet as he runs down the hallway; he’s sure that everyone else on the floor is already awake due to the kid’s wheezing. 

Tony pushes open Peter’s door, afraid of what he might see on the other side. “Pete?” 

Peter is curled up in his bed, his comforter pulled up high, and his hair a curly mess. The only light is from the window. A slice of silver shining on the bed and making the kid look paler than usual. 

Tony let the door close softly behind him. “Pete?” He calls out again, “Peter?” 

He’s close enough now that he can see Peter struggle to inhale. Tony reaches out to shake Peter’s shoulder, but he stops when the kid sends himself into a crazy coughing fit. 

“Okay, okay,” Tony says, sitting on the side of the bed and rubbing Peter’s back. “Come on, Bub. Pete, wake up, Bubba.” 

One rough hack causes Peter to open his eyes. He blinks over at Tony, his eyes foggy. “O’ny?” He asks, his voice scratchy like gravel. 

Tony is taken back for a second by the sound of the kid’s voice, but then Peter hacks a few more times, and Tony’s hand flies back to his shoulder. “You’re okay, Pete. Get it all out.” 

Peter eventually stops, and when he looks over at his mentor, his eyes are full of tears. 

“Hey, Bub,” Tony smiles. 

Sometimes he misses calling Peter nicknames -- especially the newer ones. He would never do it in front of the team; Clint would find a way to tease him relentlessly. But now… despite Peter’s sick demeanor, he beams at the monicker. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Tony asks, already knowing the answer. 

Peter shakes his head. “Not…” He stops, his face contorting in pain. “No’ good…” 

“Okay, don't stress it,” Tony assures. “Try not to talk. Your throat probably hurts, right?” 

Peter nods. 

“Yeah, I could hear you coughing and hacking down the hall.” 

Tony reaches over to the bedside table where he has placed the meds and turns on the lamp. Peter squints against the light. Tony rubs comfortingly at the kid’s temple before pouring a spoonful of the syrup. Peter eats it instantly, but the face he makes says mountains about how it really tastes. 

“Sorry, Bud,” Tony says, screwing the cap back on. “But that should help you soon. I also have some water if you want that. I can get tissues from the bathroom… what else? Are you too hot?” 

Tony remembers how FRIDAY told him about Peter’s low-grade fever. Peter just shakes his head. 

“Cold,” he croaks. 

“Ah, what did we say about talking?” 

Peter shuts his mouth, but that doesn't stop Tony from feeling bad about it. Any time Peter was quiet, that was never good news. Tony often found himself missing his spider kid's chatter more often than not. 

“Sorry, Bambino, but that’s just how you’re gonna get better.” He reaches up and pushes some damp curls from Peter’s forehead. His skin was warm, but not blazing like past incidents with the kid getting sick. “Okay, let’s get you those tissues.” 

Tony finds a box of Kleenex in the en-suite, as well as Peter’s pain reducers in the cabinet. Everything gets piled on the bedside table. 

Peter’s eyes are already drifting shut before Tony can persuade him to take anything else. The man is about to take his leave when a hand shoots out from under the blankets and grabs his wrist. 

He looks down in shock, Peter's grip is much stronger than he thought it might be, and he can hear small whimpers being muffled in the kid’s pillows. 

“Pete?” Tony asks, worry dialed to the max. 

“Don’ go,” Peter says, his voice muffled. “Stay. Please.” 

For a second Tony thought they might both get better sleep alone, but one look at his kid and he knew that was bogus. As long as he was away from Peter while he was sick, Tony wasn’t getting a lick of sleep. 

So carefully, Tony climbed over Peter and tucked himself into the empty side of the large bed. Peter rolled over and clung to him like a magnet. Two thin arms encircled themselves around Tony’s torso, and a sniffly face tucked itself against his chest. 

Tony just pulled Peter closer, locking him in place. Before the kid fell asleep, Tony managed to sneak one kiss onto the top of his head. 

“Night, Baby,” he whispered into his curls. 

Peter just hummed. 

\----

“Tony.” 

Tony’s eyes snapped open to be met with two wide, blown pupils staring back at him. He gulped. “Peter?” 

“Hi,” Peter says, and the scent of his breath almost makes Tony’s eyes water. 

“Peter, why are you up--” 

“I can’t sleep,” Peter says, his voice hardly there and rough as sandpaper. Tony watches as his eyes dart over every inch of the man’s face at lightspeed. “I- I- I tried, but I couldn’t.” 

“Well,” Tony rubs an eye and pushes himself up against the headboard. Peter moves back, but their noses are still only inches apart. “What woke you up in the first place? Was it another coughing fit?” 

Peter shook his head vigorously. It makes Tony dizzy. “Then I had that.” 

Peter points to the bedside table. Tony reaches over and turns on the light, only to see the bottle of enhanced cough syrup turned over and empty. It was almost full before they went to sleep, but now… 

“Peter, did you drink all that?” Tony asked, shocked. 

Peter nods again, but then pauses, looking confused. “...I don’t know.” 

“Well I do,” Tony says, reaching for the water on the table. “I can smell it on your breath. You know that drinking too much cough syrup can make you hallucinate, and get sick to your stomach, and…” 

He looks over at Peter. The kid has paled considerably since Tony has started his explanation, and it looks as though he would be sick. “Here, Bub, why don’t you try to drink some water?” 

Peter presses his lips together and turns his head like a child when Tony tries to hand him the glass. “Come on, Peter,” Tony says, narrowing his eyebrows. 

“I don’t wan’ it,” Peter says. 

“It’ll make you feel better, Bud.” 

“No…” Peter whines. He crosses his arms and frowns in a way that resembles a four-year-old. Tony has to hold back a snicker. 

“Bubba, I promise this will help,” Tony says, and Peter’s frown melts. 

“Fine,” he says. He takes the glass and slowly drinks the water. 

“Better?” Tony asks. Peter shrugs, but then his eyes immediately fill with tears. “Hey, hey, hey,” Tony pulls him into his arms. Peter shoves his face into Tony’s neck, and Tony’s skin crawls. 

_ He’s too hot. He wasn’t this sick before, was he?  _

Peter sniffles and wraps his arms around Tony’s chest. “I’m sorry for… for… for drinking all the medicine.” 

Tony runs his hands up from the nape of Peter’s neck, and into his curls. “That’s okay, Kiddo. I know your throat hurts.” 

Tony’s eyes find the bottle of fever reducers and he removes a hand from Peter’s back to take the bottle. “Can you take one of these?” He asks, Peter’s temperature burning him through his and the kid’s sweaty shirt. “But you did drink all the water…” 

Peter sniffles loudly. 

“That’s okay, I’ll just get some more,” Tony says, gently untangling himself from the kid. Peter whines, so Tony presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’ll be back in a second.” 

Tony gets up from the bed and takes the glass to the washroom. He is only turning off the tap when he hears Peter call out: “Tony?” 

“Back in a second,” the man shouts over his shoulder. He doesn't have to come back, though, because he is only one step out the door before Peter almost runs him over. Tony fumbles with the glass so it doesn't hit the floor, but then he doesn't care. 

Peter has his head buried in the toilet bowl, throwing up loudly. 

“Aw, shit,” Tony exclaims, setting the cup down on the vanity so he can kneel at Peter’s side. He places a hand on the kid’s back, but Peter moans horribly in response, so Tony retracts it, frightened. 

Peter just retches, coughs, moans, and sputters. In between every heave, he would sneeze, but that only seemed to trigger his gag reflex, so he would vomit more in response. 

“Okay, okay,” Tony mumbles, speaking more to himself. Peter probably wouldn’t even be able to hear him. “Um… yeah.” 

Tony sets to getting a cool cloth, Peter’s pills, and a fresh set of pajamas. By the time he’s returned to the bathroom, Peter is leaning against the wall and crying silently. His shoulders jumped painfully, and his eyes screwed up in a way that let Tony know the light was painful. 

He dims the overhead lights before approaching the boy. 

“Feeling better?” Tony asks. 

Peter hums. It sounds like,  _ not really.  _

Tony starts to pat his face softly with the cloth. “That’s what drinking a bottle of cough syrup will do to you.” 

Peter opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a hoarse sob. “My throa’ really hurts…” He cries softly. 

Tony sighs, before sitting down beside him and taking the boy in his arms. “I know, Baby.” 

“Please… make it go ‘way.” 

“It will,” Tony says, sadly. “Your super-healing will take care of it. I promise. Just gotta give it time.” 

“No…” Peter moans, flopping bonelessly into Tony’s arms. 

“I know. It sucks. I’m sorry.” 

Tony helps the kid take some fever reducers -- reluctantly -- and changes him into a new, clean shirt. Luckily, Peter complies with everything Tony asks. 

After, they sit in silence for a while -- the only sounds being the rattle of Peter’s breath and his jumpy, scattered sobs -- before Tony realizes that Peter is drifting off. He figures that now would be a good time to move them back to the bed, as his back isn’t taking this sitting position lightly. 

He actually surprises himself when he manages to get both himself and Peter up off the floor. The kid hardly reacts, just mutters a few things in his sleep, and Tony hoists him up in his arms. Maybe trying to keep up with Cap during workouts is finally showing some real progress. 

Peter’s limbs wrap around Tony like a sloth. A spider sloth. 

Tony chuckles to himself at the image. 

He rolls them both into bed just as they are. Soon enough, he is falling asleep before he can even remember to pull up the blankets. It’s fine, FRIDAY can turn up the heat herself. 

\----

Tony wakes up before Peter. 

He sneaks from the bedroom, deciding to let the kid sleep as long as he can, and wanders to the common room. 

Steve and Sam are already sitting at the island, both back from their morning run. Steve reads from a newspaper. If Tony had more energy, he might’ve reminded Steve that he can just get all his news from Twitter. 

“Look who’s actually up before the rooster crows,” Sam says, his face broken into a smug smile. 

“Good morning to you too, grandpa,” Tony grumbles as he pops a Keurig pod into the machine. Sam snorts through a laugh. On the couch, Clint snores. Obviously no one bothered to move him after the movie last night., 

“What has you up so early, Tony?” Steve asks. When the captain smiles, he practically beams. Tony wonders if his cheeks ever get tired. 

“Pete got sick last night. Nasty cold. I fell asleep in his bed,” Tony takes his now full mug of coffee. “I think him kicking me in the kidneys woke me up.” 

“Oh, shit,” Sam says, sounding genuinely worried. “I thought he couldn’t get sick. Like Cap.” 

“I thought so too,” Tony says, “but that was proven wrong a long time ago. Also, Cap can totally get sick. Steve, tell Wilson about the time you ate that rancid calzone and had food poisoning for a week.” 

Steve’s smile is gone in an instant. “I thought we agreed never to speak of it.” 

“I don’t remember that,” Tony smiles into his mug. 

Sam grins evilly. His eyes sparkle. “A calzone?” 

Steve sighs, “And now we’re talking about it.” 

Tony laughs. Sam presses on. Steve, annoyed, buries his nose further in his newspaper. 

Tony takes this moment to make his exit. He walks towards the elevator, deciding to get a few hours of shut eyes before the kid wakes and needs him again. If he wasn’t better when he woke, they were going to have a long day ahead of them. 

\----

Peter was fine, aside from a sore throat and a runny nose. 

That didn’t stop Tony from bundling him up with extra scarves and gloves the next time he decided to go and play in the snow. And that time, when Tony saw Peter remove his hat as a gift to a snowman, he didn't hesitate to run outside with an extra. He didn’t care what the other’s thought. 

If they made fun of him, they could stay up all night and brush Peter’s hair back. 

Tony deserved the sleep. 


	3. Heat Stroke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting some Peter POV in this one.

Summer days always felt heavy. 

Peter thinks about that as he lays on his mattress, his suit sticky with sweat and clinging to his body. He allows his hands to dangle over the side of the bed, his mask barely clinging to the tips of his fingers. 

Maybe it was a bad idea to patrol today. 

He can’t open his eyes. 

In the room across from his, May snores softly. She had pulled three all-night shifts this week, and as much as Peter could use some help from someone who actually knew what they were doing, he couldn’t bring himself to wake her. 

Maybe Karen would know… but that would involve putting his mask on. 

He just spent the last five hours feeling as though he were suffocating; he wasn’t about to do it again. 

He could call Tony… 

Blindly, he swats his bed in a search for his phone. His hand eventually comes in contact with something other than a pillow and sheets, and he grabs it. 

“Siri,” he mumbles. His mouth feels fuzzy. _Who lined his tongue with felt?_ “Call Tony.” 

The phone dials, rings for a long time and eventually starts playing Tony’s answering machine. _“I’m not here… why did I even invent a phone with an answering machine? Just text me. It’s the twenty-first century.”_

Peter groans and he knows that the receiver picks it up, but he doesn't bother to say anything else. He hangs up by hitting his phone screen and rolls off the bed. 

“Fuck it,” he grumbles. “I’ll just go over there myself.” 

He can’t change -- he can barely stand, which he knows is a bad sign -- so he pulls a tee shirt and basketball shorts on over his suit and starts towards the front door. 

“You’re an idiot,” he mumbles to himself, brushing sweaty curls back. 

He hasn’t had a hair cut in a while. If he really tried, he’s sure he could pull it back in one of those stupid man-buns Tony hates. 

Before he goes, though, he takes a whole bottle of extra-strength Advil from the medicine cabinet and a bottle of water. Instead of heading down, he goes up towards the roof. Less chance of stumbling into someone who thought he was drunk or a passer-by who might spot his suit. 

Peter downs half of the water, and then knocks ten Advil into his hand, swallowing them with a long grimace. It definitely does not do his queasy stomach good, but he can only hope for the best. 

He wonders if this staircase has any cameras that can see him. He hopes not, or else his security guard is gonna have questions. 

“This is a terrible idea,” Peter mutters, leaning against the blue walls when the world starts to tilt. His normally invincible legs feel as though they’re made of waterlogged spaghetti, and he sinks down to a squat. “I’m no’ gonna ma’e it…” 

He fumbles for his watch, his eyes falling closed. A persistent pounding was starting behind his left eye, and it hurt to open, so he only opened one. He squinted at the wall across from him as if it had done something terrible to offend him. 

As if this pain was it’s fault. 

Peter groans, the throbbing moving deeper into the depths of his mind. Both eyes close, his hand coming up and limply looking for his watch. If only he could ask FRIDAY to call Tony… 

Somewhere, in the vastness of this whole predicament, he can hear the half-full bottle of pills tip over and spill down the staircase. Somewhere even farther than that, he can hear Tony calling out his name. 

Then he’s gone. 

\----

“Peter?” A voice is floating. _Can voices float?_

“Pete, wake up, bud.” 

It’s back, drifting like a feather. In one ear, and getting jumbled in Peter’s mind. It tickles. If his whole top half didn’t ache, he might have laughed. 

Instead, he groans. 

“Ah, there he is.” 

The pounding has gotten so much worse. It consumes his head; opening his eyes feels like it takes an hour. His eyelids weigh a million pounds. He paws at his forehead angrily. 

Whatever he was sitting on was _not_ comfortable. It was also stifling hot in here. He knew that their apartment’s AC was broken, but it never got _this_ bad… 

“Wha… where am I?” 

“Thirty-fourth-floor staircase…” The voice says. It sounds amused. 

Finally, two things connect in his mind, and he realizes that the person standing in front of him is the one he called earlier. The one that he left a message for… of himself groaning, as if in serious pain. 

That wasn’t pain earlier. _This is pain._

His stomach is doing jumping jacks, trying to flip itself inside out, while his head feels as though it might implode. 

“You called me,” Tony says, leaning against the staircase’s railing. Peter wants to tell him that that is nowhere close to sturdy, but he doesn't have the strength. “Or should I say, FRIDAY called me when your body heat started reaching higher than normal levels, and you passed out unceremoniously.” 

He stares down at Peter, and Peter can feel his gaze. It burns. Not as bad as his headache, but it’s still there. A persistent scratch. 

Peter was too warm. 

“I checked my messages in the car,” Tony says, kneeling down and taking Peter’s chin in his hands gently. “When you get one of your kid groaning like he’s bleeding out, it kinda kicks you into overdrive. Good to see it’s just a heat stroke.” 

“Tha’s good?” Peter slurs. 

Tony sighs. “No, not good, but better than the other option.” 

Peter was starting to fade again. He could feel it. His vision was turning black at the edges. Hopefully Tony could tell. 

When Peter starts to list to the side, someone catches him before he can tumble down the stairs. He thinks he smiles when the hand pulls him to his feet. Together, they walk down the short sets of stairs. 

“Maybe if you didn’t go on patrol in hundred-degree weather I wouldn't be cleaning you off the steps,” Tony says, his voice a hundred miles away. 

All Peter can do is nod, trying not to hurl, and stumble along. 

\----

“The kid is a fucking wreck,” Happy says from the front seat. 

Tony just holds Peter closer. He seems to be fully gone. If Tony knew correctly, he’d say that the kid was completely out of it by the fourth landing, but he still managed to shuffle his feet along, so Tony had no idea if he was really there. 

He tried talking to him, but he was pretty sickly looking when Tony arrived and wasn’t getting any better. 

“He’ll be okay,” Tony says, keeping his eyes out the front window. 

“Probably heat stroke,” Happy comments as he weaves through mid-afternoon traffic. “Where’s May, wouldn't she handle this? Must have had a pretty good reason to miss out if the kid was passed out in the stairwell.” 

“Or this is just Peter being Peter,” Tony says, stripping Peter out of his tee-shirt. There is so much sweat coating the grey material that it almost looks black. He goes for the shorts next. “What was he thinking putting his clothes on over his suit?” 

“I am literally the last person you should ask,” Happy says, making a sharp right turn. “I never know what’s happening with this kid.” 

Tony grimaces at the sweat build-up that has gathered on his kid. The heat of him is simply too much, but Tony knows that whatever he is feeling is a thousand times worse for Peter. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if Peter was suffering from a pretty bad migraine as well. 

“You’ll be okay, bub,” Tony whispers, drawing Peter’s head closer to him. He plants a kiss on his sweaty temple. “I promise.” 

\----

Peter wakes as soon as the car is put into park, as if the simple gear shift was hardwired to his brain, and his eyes open with a jolt. 

“Huh?” He mumbles, rubbing his temple. 

“Hey, bub,” Tony starts, leaning over so he is in the kid’s line of sight. 

Tony’s voice must be too loud though because Peter groans and screws his eyes back shut. He throws his hands over his ears, and even with them closed, Tony can see tears of pain bloom in the corner of Peter’s eyes. 

_“Sorry,”_ Tony whispers. It’s impossibly soft, but he knows that Peter will hear it all the same. _“I’m gonna take you inside now, okay?”_

Peter nods sharply. 

Tony lightly takes his shoulders, guiding the slightly trembling boy out of the car and towards the elevator. FRIDAY must have picked up on how Peter was feeling, as the elevator makes no noise as they rise and none as the doors open. 

They’re upstairs in Tony’s penthouse (a place he hardly stays considering), but right now it’s convenient. Tony gently lays Peter down on the couch and brushes a lock of hair back before backward stepping away. 

Peter just groans. 

“FRI,” Tony whispers into his watch. “Get Happy to go and get Peter’s pain killers from his bedroom, please.” 

With that out of the way, Tony hurries to gather things for the kid that will hopefully help him get back on his feet. A couple of bottles of water, a fresh change of clothes, a banana for when he was hungry later, and a bowl in case he threw up. 

Last time Tony had heat stroke, he was in the bathroom sick all day. That was not a fun few hours. 

He also had FRIDAY turn the AC on full blast. He didn’t care if he got cold. In his opinion, the compound was always just a little too warm. But maybe that was just him. 

Once he has the pills, he places them on the table beside his other goodies and sits down on the edge of the couch. “Pete,” he says, placing a gentle hand on his kid’s shoulders. “I know you don’t want to, but I need you to sit up. I have your pills here.” 

Peter moans but does not resist when Tony pulls him up to slump against the man’s side. He just opens his mouth, allows Tony to place two pills on his tongue, and slowly drink the water as it is brought to his lips. 

He swallows with a grimace and smiles sickly at Tony. 

_I did it,_ Peter seems to say. _Can I go back to suffering in silence now?_

“Awesome, bub,” Tony says, laying him back down. “I’m gonna take your suit off, but you don’t have to do squat.” 

Peter seems to grumble, _good._

Tony taps the spider emblem on the chest, letting the suit pool around Peter and drags it down so the kid’s flushed body can breathe. Peter sighs, obviously content, so Tony just allows him to lay there for a while in the cool air. 

He decides to get out while the kid’s comfortable, because knowing Peter, Tony was sure that just sitting next to him was enough to make him overheat. 

Tony moves over to the dining room table and starts doing the work that he has pulled away from earlier. Reading over documents and contracts for Stark Industries that Pepper had practically been forcing down his throat. 

He is halfway through a form, his eyes drifting shut with boredom when Peter abruptly sits up on the couch. It takes Tony by surprise, and as he’s shoving his chair back to stand up, he can hear the kid start to gag and cough shortly. 

“Damn it,” Tony says, racing over to Peter’s side. 

Peter has the bowl that Tony previously pulled out already in his lap. He heaves once or twice, before spitting a mouthful of saliva and pushing the bowl back onto the table. 

Peter groans. 

“Feeling better, bud?” Tony asks, his voice just above a whisper. 

Peter nods, one arm thrown over his eyes. “Sure.” 

“Why don’t you just sleep it off,” Tony says, helping the kid back down into his previous position. “I’ll clean this up.” 

“‘Kay,” Peter mumbles, nuzzling his face into a throw pillow. “‘Hanks for rescuing me.” 

Tony snorts on a soft laugh. “No problem, bub.” 

\----

Peter wakes up with his head on Tony’s shoulder. He groans, but if Tony notices, he doesn't make it known. 

The pounding in his head has died down to a soft drum line, and Peter rubs an eye. They both still hurt to open, but he does so anyway. They are on the sofa in Tony’s penthouse -- a place that hardly anyone enters -- and the television that sits across from them is on. 

Tony’s watching Queer Eye, a show that Peter got him hooked on once again. Antoni is showing someone how to chop vegetables, and Peter doesn't bother paying attention because he’s seen this episode already. 

“Hi,” he says, his voice hoarse. He takes in for a second how cold the apartment is, and he wonders how Tony is alright being in the cold. 

“Hey,” Tony says. One of the man’s hands snake up and bury itself in Peter’s curls. 

Peter practically purrs when rough fingers drag gently along his scalp. 

“You feeling better now, bub?” Tony asks. He turns the TV down slightly. 

Peter nods. 

“Nothing like puking and then sleeping the day away to get rid of heat stroke,” Tony chuckles. 

Peter groans for a second time, “How long was I out?” 

“Long enough,” Tony gestures to the television where Antoni is still prepping ingredients. “I learned how to make short ribs.” 

Pete hums. “It sounds amazing, but maybe let Steve make it… I think I saw you burn toast.” 

“Not my fault,” Tony says, giving the kid’s shoulders a squeeze with his arm. “I just thought you liked charred toast. You should have given me a heads up.” 

Peter snickers. “Thanks for looking out for me.” 

“Anytime, Pete. Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is partly inspired by the time I had work a pool summer camp that was indoors, and the pool was 90 degrees Fahrenheit. I had heat stroke by the time Friday rolled around and almost passed out on the walk home. 
> 
> Why not just take inspiration from your own experiences? :p


	4. Poisoning

Tony hated charity galas. That always felt like a given. He hated putting on a suit and taking a limo to rented out ballrooms. Having to put on a smile for paparazzi and pretend to appreciate relative questions. Hated having too little patience to talk to old men with too much money and too many trophy wives to count. 

But now, the thing that Tony hated most was that he had to drag Peter into it. 

“Tony, it will be fine,” Pepper had told him right after she informed him she couldn’t be his plus one this time around. She hated these events just as much as Tony. 

“It will not be fine,” Tony grumbled, typing at his laptop aggressively. Maybe if he ignored this conversation enough, it will have never happened. 

“If Peter ends up taking over the company,” Pepper started, “then he will have to go to these anyway. Think of it as practice for him.” 

Tony frowned at the data schematics on his computer screen. He could see Pepper reflected just beyond the numbers, so he focused his glare at the mini her that crossed its arms and tapped its foot. 

“Just ask him,” Pepper had said, walking towards the door. “I’m sure he’ll be over the moon.” 

Peter was in fact over the moon. Maybe he was even over Jupiter with excitement. 

Tony was also sure that he could tell the kid that they were going to go and set themselves on fire and Peter would jump for joy. But that was debatable. 

It was only until Tony pulled out Peter’s suit that the kid showed the first sign of resentment. 

“Is there something wrong?” Tony asked, looking at the perfectly tailored suit he held. “It’s Tom Ford. Thought you might like to try something less flashy for your first gala.” 

Peter’s jaw hung open. “That’s _not_ flashy?” 

“Kid, it’s fine. I have about six of them in my closet.” 

“This is not making me feel any better.” 

“Pete, what did you expect to wear? Your decathlon uniform? Sorry, but I think that that _yellow blazer_ is about three years too small for you. No way I can have you rolling up in something that smells like Cheetos and teenage perspiration.” 

Peter bites his lip and looks at his shoes with a meek expression. Tony instantly felt bad. 

“Hey, it’s fine. I actually think the uniform looks great on you.” Peter glances up with a small smile. “Anyway, the gala is in five hours. Gotta start getting ready before it’s too late.” 

_“Five hours?”_

Now, sitting at their designated table and watching Peter take in the party around him, Tony wondered if bringing the kid was a mistake. It was a Saturday. Peter could be having a sleepover with Ned instead of sitting in a stuffy suit, in a stuffy room, surrounded by stuffy businessmen. 

Tony could have brought Happy with him. The Forehead of Security definitely hated these events more than anyone, but at least people would be leaving them alone. 

Tony only imagined that Peter’s presence was only drawing more attention to them. Tony Stark rolled in with a child that he had never been seen with before; everyone wanted to know the status of their relationship and who Peter was. 

“You good, Bud?” Tony asked, leaning over so he could speak softly. 

“Yeah,” Peter says and nods stiffly. “I’m fine.” 

“It’s a lot, huh?” Tony asks, smiling sympathetically as Peter pulls at his collar. 

Peter’s eyes were darting around the room, never landing on one thing for too long. 

They had a table to themselves, which seemed excessive considering it was just the two of them. Tony didn’t mind having to not make mindless conversation with strangers, though. 

“I hate these things,” Tony says with a sigh, sitting back in his chair. 

“You hate charity?”

“What? No. I love charity,” Tony says, pouring every ounce of _genuine_ he has into that statement. He hoped Peter didn’t think he was being sarcastic. “I just hate these events. Nothing interesting ever happens. It would be a lot more fun if I could just donate and not have to spend my Saturday here.” 

“You would rather be sitting at home watching The Office reruns instead?” Peter asked. 

“One hundred percent.” 

Peter snickers, his eyes casting around once more. 

A couple from the table beside them gives Peter a judgmental once over. Tony glares at them before the kid can notice them staring. 

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” Tony says. Peter gives him a worried glance. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in five minutes, tops. Besides, you can see the bar from here.” 

Peter nods.

“If anyone tries to talk to you,” Tony says, “pretend to take a call. Make it sound important. If that doesn't work… I don’t know, scream _stranger danger_ until security tackles them.” 

Peter nods once more and laughs. Tony leaves before he can convince himself to stay. 

He has to shove his way through the crowd to reach the bar, and he keeps his eyes narrowed, looking for people who are eyeing up his table. It didn’t matter if he was holding drinks, he would gladly take someone down if it kept Peter out of a gossip column. 

“Hey,” he hails down the bartender. “Two cokes, one with rum.” 

The bartender nods and disappears for a second. While Tony waits, he notices a second bartender standing a few feet away and glaring right at him. Tony’s mouth settles into a grim line, his brows coming together when his glowering is interrupted by the first bartender bringing him his drinks. 

Tony thanks the man stiffly, before casting one more look over to the other bartender. The man is still standing there, scowling, and Tony leaves before he gets approached. 

“That was quick,” Peter says. 

“Told ya,” Tony hands him his drink and takes a seat. “Did anyone talk to you? Make any serious calls while I was gone?”

Peter shakes his head. “Nah. I just went on Twitter. Made myself look busy.” 

“Smart.” 

“Well…” Peter shrugs his shoulders in a _what-are-ya-gonna-do_ kinda way. Tony smiles into his glass. 

Dinner was brought to them on silver platters, and steam clouded up from the dish and towards the ceiling. Peter’s eyes followed the plates as they were placed in front of them, and as soon as the waiter was stepping away from their table, he was digging in. 

Tony had to admit that it looked good -- roasted vegetables and pan-seared salmon -- but an uneasy feeling had settled in his gut. He couldn’t stop thinking of the bartender from earlier. 

Tony was used to people not liking him, just another perk of being him, but there was something different about this experience. The amount of pure hate that that man held in his gaze made Tony lose all of his appetites. 

He pushed his plate away from himself without even picking up a fork. 

Peter on the other hand had devoured his meal in a matter of minutes. He wiped at his mouth with a napkin, eyeing Tony’s plate and sending a silent request to Tony. Tony just nodded and Peter dug in. 

“I take that it’s good,” Tony says, leaning back in his seat. 

“It’s _so_ good, Tony,” Peter says, his mouth full. 

Any other time, Tony may have reminded Peter to not speak with his mouth full, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than watch his kid eat. He allowed a small, content smile to stretch across his face. 

After dinner came dessert, naturally, but Tony had been to enough of these to know that the speeches would be before they served the slices of cake. 

A woman he vaguely recognized walked onto the stage and took a spot behind a podium. He turned in his seat so he could have a better view, but while he watched, he allowed his mind to wander. 

These speeches were all the same. _Thank you all for coming… blah blah blah… hope you enjoyed the meal. Wasn’t that salmon something?... blah blah blah…_

The woman was only about fifteen minutes into his speech when a slight movement in his peripheral caught Tony’s attention. He looked to the side, only to see Peter swaying slightly in his seat. 

The kid looked paler than usual, and an unnatural amount of sweat had built up on his face. It looked as though he was gonna be sick. 

“Pete,” Tony whispers, his voice dripping with worry. “Pete, Bud, over here.” 

Peter looks over to Tony with half-lidded eyes. Tony’s own eyes widened when he noticed the green tint to his skin. 

“You okay?” Tony asks, knowing the answer. 

Peter nods, only to stop short when he seems like he’ll throw up. “I’m fine…” 

“Kid--” 

Peter suddenly lists forward, and as he falls, he grabs onto the table cloth with clammy hands. The weight of his body causes him to drop off the chair, and he pulls everything on the table with him. 

The crash of it all hitting the ground is deafening. 

“Fuck!” Tony exclaims, kneeling down next to Peter and cupping the kid’s head gently in his hands. “Pete, Kid, hey… Hey, hey, hey, look at me.” 

Everything around the two of them seems distant. The woman giving her speech has stopped speaking. Guests are gasping and crowding around them, at least a dozen on their phones calling for help. 

Tony can’t focus on anything other than the wheezing child in front of him. 

“‘Ony…” Peter groans. His hair is damp with sweat; his skin white as paper. “I don’t… I’m gonna…” 

Peter suddenly gagged deep in his throat, and Tony scrambled to pick the kid up. He had only started to hoist him up by his armpits when Peter dry heaved and lost his dinner down the front of his button-down. 

“That’s okay, that’s okay,” Tony says softly, speaking right into Peter’s ear. Tony’s cheek was pressed right against the child’s temple. “You’re okay, Bubba. I swear. You’re okay.” 

Peter was trembling. His body burnt like a furnace and he was so sweaty it was as if he had just stepped from a shower without toweling off. “‘Ony…” He groaned once more. 

The kid’s right hand comes up and paws at Tony’s face. Tony takes the hand in his own and squeezes it gently. There are tears in Peter’s eyes and with a heavy blink, they all stream down his cheeks. 

“It hurts,” Peter whimpers. “Like… fire.” 

“I know it does, baby,” Tony whispers, his own tears burning. “But we’re gonna fix it. I promise.” 

He had no idea what Peter truly meant. He just knew that something was incredibly wrong with his kid, and he couldn’t do anything to help, and he had no clue why no one else was doing anything, either. 

Peter groans some more, and a second commotion happens somewhere behind them. The crowd is suddenly parting like the red sea, a few cries of detest arising from the guests as they have to give up their spot with a good view. 

Tony doesn't look up from his boy. He only wraps his arms tighter around Peter’s shivering frame and shields him from the onlookers. 

Somebody should tell everyone to leave. Tony wanted Peter to feel safe; not like he was on display at a zoo. 

And then there were hands on them. People trying to roughly pry Tony away from Peter, but they both just held on. Paramedics were there, and for a second, Tony had to remind himself that they only wanted to help. 

Peter started sobbing. “No! No-- Tony!” 

“It’s okay, Baby,” Tony says, smoothing back his sweaty curls. “It’s the ambulance. They just wanna help.” 

Peter continued to cry, but put on a brave face and let himself be put on a stretcher. Tony jumped to his feet, grabbing onto Peter’s outstretched hand and running alongside the paramedics as they left the venue. 

“Mr. Stark,” a female paramedic starts, “what are you in relation to him?” 

Tony doesn't hesitate before saying, “His dad.” 

She nods and then moves to the side so Tony can get in the ambulance beside Peter. Tony keeps their hands in a tight grip as the vehicle soars through the city. 

Peter is laying on his side, his eyes distant as they stare at nothing in particular. He breathes heavily through his nose. 

“Can you please redirect our route?” Tony asks, looking to the paramedic across from him. 

She gives him a questioning look. 

“He has a medical condition,” Tony says. “I have a fully stocked facility just outside of town. It has everything to treat him properly. Please, just… as fast you can. I’ll pay any fine you get for speeding.” 

The paramedic seems reluctant. “I could get in trouble…” 

“I know, but… please.” 

She clenches her jaw and nods firmly. Without a word, she moves to the front of the vehicle and informs the driver of the new location. Tony taps at his watch with his free hand and lets FRIDAY hack into the GPS system to give them the address. 

“Tony…” 

Tony’s head whips down to stare at his kid. A smile scratches across his lips. “Hey, Bub.” 

“You were wrong.” 

“What?” Tony’s heart skips a beat. 

“You said nothing interesting ever happens at these. You were wrong.” 

Tony laughs, relief flooding through him. “Lord, Kid, one of these days you're gonna send me into cardiac arrest and it will be your fault. You and your stupid remarks.” 

Peter grins despite it all. 

\----

It was poisoning, which in hindsight, Tony should have figured out. 

His own meal was the one that was tampered with, and when he allowed Peter to eat his food, he fed him the poison. That eats at Tony for weeks after he finds out. 

Peter was fine. Bruce and Cho fixed him up better than Tony or a hospital ever could. 

Thanks to Peter’s super-healing, a poison that should have killed Tony in minutes only gave him a horrible case of the flu and indigestion. 

He was back on his feet in a matter of days. 

Tony points out the bartender from the event to the police. When the man was brought in, he confessed pretty quickly. He also gave up the name of his friend that tampered with Tony’s meal. 

Tony knew there was a reason he felt uneasy. If only he had acted on it sooner. 

“At least he’s doing time,” Peter says when he hears the full story. 

“Not enough if you ask me.” 

“It’s a life sentence, Tony.” 

“Yeah… maybe they should just keep his corpse locked up in one of the cells after he kicks it. Use it to scare other inmates so they don’t go around poisoning teenagers.”

Peter makes a face. “That’s horrible.” 

“Tell me that wouldn’t scare you.” 

“You’re scaring me right now.” 

Tony reaches over and places a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I was terrified, Pete.” 

“I was too.” 

“But I thought I was gonna lose you.” 

“You won’t.” 

Before Tony can think about it, he’s pulling Peter into a hug. The kid doesn't hesitate to hug back. 

“Please don’t let me lose you,” Tony whispers. 

“I won’t,” Peter says, his voice softer than anything. “You would never allow it.”


	5. Hypothermia

Peter was lost. 

He had been trying to deny it for the past twenty minutes, but as his feet shuffled through the snow and the winter wind bit, he had succumbed to the realization. 

This mission was supposed to be short. They were supposed to be on the quinjet and heading home by now. There was gonna be piping hot pizza for dinner and movies. Not Peter wandering alone in a forest blanketed with snow and the team too far out of reach to contact. 

“Karen?” He asks, kicking up the white powder with a huff. “Anything?” 

_“Sorry, Peter,”_ Karen says, sounding resigned. _“Heaters are up and operational, though. No chance of freezing to death any time soon!”_

Peter frowns. “Was that a joke?” 

Karen is silent. 

“Kare, what did we say about jokes?” 

_“...They are appropriate in the right place and setting. You also said,_ better to lighten the mood! _Was I not helping?...”_

“No, no,” Peter sighs, “just please let me know when you get something.” 

Peter continues trudging forward. If he had pockets right now, he would shove his hands into them as far as they would go and hunch his shoulders. Happy would only say it made him look like a moody teenager, but Peter thought that this situation was acceptable for that. 

He had been walking for too long. He never thought that he was flung this far during the battle. 

_“Take cover!” Sam had screamed, his voice cracking in Peter’s ear._

_Peter’s gaze shot to the sky. Above the towering, snow-dusted pines, four or five helicopters swarmed in. The force of their blades shaking the branches and sending a flurry of white onto the team’s shoulders._

_It was almost pretty. Until the gunshots came._

_Peter started running._

_He swerved and dodged around the enemies on the ground while hiding under the fan of branches from the snipers above. He caught a glimpse of the IronMan suit zipping past; the sound of Sam’s wings shaking pine needles loose; the red cloud of electricity that Wanda conjured miles away._

_He thought they were winning. He was confident in it._

_So confident in fact, that he didn’t hesitate to climb the skinny trunk of the tree he hid under. And his suit was not conspicuous, so it was no surprise when Tony’s voice filled his head._

_“Get back on the ground, Spider-Man.”_

_“I’m fine,” Peter replied, the smile clear in his voice._

_He’d never climbed a pine before, and he could say that he wasn’t a fan of sap._

_“I know you’re fine now,” Tony said, “but what about in two minutes when I have to save your ass from the snipers?”_

_Peter almost laughed. “No worries here, Tony! We both know I got it covered.”_

_“Peter…”_

_If Peter could turn off the comms he would. Instead, he rolled his eyes and pulled himself to the top of the tree. The bows bent under his weight, so it gave him a nice perch to see the sky spread around him._

_He must have been fifty feet off the ground, and the closest helicopter was only a stone's throw or two away. Peter smirked, tuned whatever Tony was jabbering about out, and aimed._

_His web hit the bottom of the helicopter square on, and he pulled. The chopper careened in his direction, and one of the snipers fell out the open door. Peter mentally triumphed, pulling the web with both hands._

_He almost had it close enough to jump -- his plan to get inside and take out the passengers -- when the branch he was on snapped. In hindsight, it was definitely a shot from a different helicopter, but at the moment, all Peter could register was that he was falling too quickly for comfort._

_Peter shot out a second web and arched down under the helicopter. The chopper pulled up, taking Peter higher through the air and farther from the team._

_“Wait, wait, wait!” Peter cried, working to pull himself up when the chopper suddenly twisted and sent him swinging to the right._

_Peter’s spidey-senses burned with imminent danger, Tony’s frantic voice cracking the comms when his kid was flung into the body of a second helicopter._

_His head filled with a bright, white light, and the pain hit. It blocked out all other senses, his mind swimming, and the urge to vomit climbing his throat._

_“Peter!” Someone screamed, and then a different voice yelling, “Someone get him!”_

_Then there were gunshots._

_Then there was nothing._

\----

And now he’s here. 

Forty-five minutes ago he woke half-buried in a snowbank. His head throbbed, and he had peeled his eyes open disorientedly, looking around and having his heart sink when he can’t see the team. 

He didn’t recognize where he was, but then again, the forest continued looking identical no matter how far he walked in the direction he thought he came from. That helicopter really dragged him a long way from home. 

The feeling to puke was just a faint tug in his gut now -- he vomited earlier when he first woke. He had hardly got his mask off in time, Karen’s voice warning him about his impending up-chuck, and soon enough, the snow beside him was painted with his breakfast. 

“No thank you,” he had muttered, using the back of his gloved hand to wipe his mouth. 

Despite it all, he had managed to pull himself up to shaky feet and start in a direction he thought was North. Peter had failed Geography in the past, so he now hoped that his non-existent skills would help him find Tony and the quinjet. 

“Karen?” Peter asked. She had been oddly silent for the past couple of minutes. He missed her voice. “You there?” 

_“I’m here,”_ Karen says in her monotone way. 

“Anything?” Peter asks, his voice soft as he touches the trunk of a pine. 

_Have I seen this tree before?_

Peter shoots a web onto the tree so he’ll know if he sees it again, just as Karen says, _“I am not picking up any connection. We seem to be stuck in some sort of radio silence zone. I can put out a distress call, but I don’t know if anyone on the team would pick it up.”_

Peter sighs, tells Karen to send out the signal anyway and continues forward. 

The cold from the snow is starting to creep through the spandex of the suit, which is strange considering his heater should be fully operational. But Peter had learned the hard way that spiders don’t thermoregulate, and freezing to death is not his ideal way to go. 

He really fucking hopes he’s going North. 

\----

Peter only really starts to notice the cold seeping into his skin once the first few flakes fall. 

“Karen?” Peter asks. 

_“Yes?”_

“Are the heaters on?” 

_“Heaters are fully operational.”_

Peter sighs, wraps his arms around himself and walks through a cloud of his own breath. 

“Got any predictions for the weather?” Peter asks, his laugh a mere whisper. 

_“Predictions from 8:57 this morning said that skies would be clear and sunny,”_ Karen reports. 

Peter looks up at the snow that falls around them. The sky was grey and not-visible behind the heavy clouds. He huffs angrily. “What do the weathermen know anyway?” 

\----

When he saw something sheer floating in the wind, his feet picked up the pace, and his arms clenched around his shivering frame tighter.

He’s standing next to the floating object in less than ten steps. It’s his web. He’s next to the tree that he web less than an hour ago. He’s been walking in a wide circle. 

Peter leans into the tree trunk so quickly he practically falls into it, and with burning eyes, he stares at the web that dances in the snowy breeze. “Shit,” Peter bites, his teeth clicking against each other as he speaks. 

He’s shivering too much for comfort. 

“Karen?” Peter asks, his voice quiet. He was afraid he was going to bite his own tongue off with how much his jaw was shuddering and clenching. “Kare?” 

He doesn't get an answer. 

“Karen?” His voice is so soft. He can _hear_ the tears underneath the words. 

She was gone. His heater was down. Peter was alone and freezing. 

“Fuck. Fuck, shit.” Peter grabs at his upper arms like if he let go he’d fall apart. Apparently, body heat did nothing to warm a person if the hug was one sided and coming from a living icicle. 

_Keep going,_ a voice in his head says. It takes too long for Peter to realize it’s Tony’s. _I’ll find you, Bub. But only if you keep going… come on._

Peter pushes himself up, clutches his jaw to the point of pain, and trudges on. Tony would find him, he just had to get there first. 

\----

Peter was moving too slow. 

His brain was moving too slow. He didn’t realize he wasn’t moving until he had been standing still for a couple of minutes. Peter looked dumbly down at where his feet were buried in snow up to his mid-calves, and chuckled to himself tiredly. 

“Oh… Tha’s why…” 

His feet were stuck to the ground. He tried to pull his foot forward to take another step, but the action almost sent him toppling forward. 

“Das no’ goo…” Peter slurs, his breath creating a dense cloud in front of his face that disperses into the storm of snow. 

Peter tries again and loses his balance. He careens to the right, crashing into something hard. It’s a tree. Peter looks up with half-lidded eyes and realizes with relief that there is no web on this tree. 

Maybe he’d stopped going in circles. Maybe the team was close by. 

Maybe they had already left. Maybe they gave up looking for him. Maybe they went home and were planning a funeral for a kid who was about to pull a full on Captain America. 

Peter wondered if it hurt when Steve froze. _Would it hurt when it happened to_ me? 

With a huff of icy breath, Peter sunk down into the snow below. It was cold but inviting. He curled into a ball, a part of him remembering the body’s major heat sources -- _armpits, under the knees, stomach_ \-- and acted to protect himself. 

Maybe if he’d kept himself warm, the snow that inevitably covered him would all melt away. 

Peter didn’t have the energy to remind himself to stay awake. 

\----

Someone was screaming. 

“Peter!” 

Someone was screaming _his_ name. 

“Peter!” 

Hands were on him, wiping away snow; cupping his masked face. They were warm and large. If Peter could move, he would have leaned into the touch. Instead, he just whined like a baby. 

“I’m here,” the voice says, worried beyond belief. “Baby, _I’m here.”_

_I’m here, too. I’m here._

“I’m not letting you go, okay? We’ve got you now.” 

_I’m here. Please, don’t let me go._

\----

When Peter wakes, he's so warm that it almost burns. 

Disorientated, he opens one eye halfway and takes in the blurry shapes of the quinjet. There is a figure sitting opposite him, and after a languished blink, Steve comes into full color. 

The super-soldier is staring at Peter, but he’s not fully there. It takes a few blinks before Steve comes back to life and notices Peter's awareness. Steve clears his throat, obviously trying to catch someone’s attention, and gestures not so subtly to where Peter lay. 

It was at that moment that Peter realized that the warm thing he was laying against was a person. 

“Hey, Bubba,” a soft voice croons, and comfortable warmth blooms through Peter’s chest. 

Warm, large, rough hands brush against Peter’s cheeks. The same hands from before in the snow. Now that Peter was more coherent, he leans into the touch. 

A gentle kiss is placed on top of his mess of damp curls. 

_“‘Ony,”_ Peter sighs, his teeth chattering. 

His whole body was wracked with shivers. Defrosting hurt; his muscles seized in different spots, sharp cramps that Peter’s delayed mind registered too far apart. 

There was a huge, soft weight that compressed Peter’s body. A part of it felt suffocating, but it also kept him very, very warm, so he accepted it. The best part of it all was the man that Peter rested against. 

“Shh, Baby, don’t talk,” Tony says, his voice soft against Peter’s ear. 

Peter whimpers, the pain finally catching up with him. His fingertips and toes burn, his entire being both hot and cold at the same time. Muscles clench and limbs tingle with pins and needles. 

A couple of tears well up when Peter can’t seem to move his tongue enough to form words. Instead, he wines low. 

_“Hur’s…”_ The syllables don't match with the word and the sound becomes a jumbled mess on his tongue. Tony just clutches him closer. 

“I know it does, Baby, but we’re getting you all warmed up. You’ll be good soon.” 

Peter doubted that last part, but he knew that the team was doing the best they could in their limited time. He snuggled into Tony’s embrace, burrowing himself in the mountain of blankets and warmth. 

Maybe he could just force himself to sleep once again, and when he woke up he would be good as new. 

His dozing was suddenly interrupted by a set of footsteps. 

“He okay?” A light voice asks. 

Peter squints at the new person. Wanda was now sitting across from them, next to Steve, and speaking to Tony. Her cheeks were flushed red from the cold; the small ringlets of hair that fell around her ears were damp with melted frost. 

“He’s okay,” Tony says, his voice a rumble against Peter’s back. 

Wanda smiles. “Good.” 

Peter wishes that he could tell his friend that he was alright on his own, but his mouth felt heavy. 

Tony’s lips are pressed to the crown of his head once more. He kept them there even after he was done giving a small kiss. 

“I’m sorry I lost you,” he whispers, his voice thick with tears. 

_“I’s… Otay… y-- you found me…”_

“Of course I did.” 

_“‘Hanks… Dad.”_

Tony stiffens, sniffs quietly, and then hugs Peter tighter. Peter sighed contentedly, knowing that when he woke up, everything was gonna be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed upload. I'm now in my final year of school, so work has been piling up. I've been trying my best to squeeze time for writing in my now crazy schedule, and I tried my best to make this chapter as good as the others. 
> 
> Anyway, the next chapter will be the last one (OMG) and I expect it to be crazy long compared to the previous ones, but I have no idea when it will be out. Please excuse my tardiness :D


	6. Car Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this chapter kinda feels like a milestone for me for a multitude of reasons.  
> 1\. I finally forced myself to get over my writer's block and post something to this site (sorry for the wait). 2. This chapter is basically a mashup of a bunch of different prompts I have been wanting to use.   
> 3\. This is the last chapter of this fic, which means it is over.  
> Thank you for all of the support! You guys are the reason I have the motivation to finish these chapters, and I have so much fun writing them!

“Stop staring,” Peter says. 

“I’m not.” 

Peter scoffs, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. His eyes trained out the windshield. Even when Tony says that he isn’t staring at his son, he continues to do so. Peter drums his pointer finger, the _tap, tap, tapping_ filling the silence. 

“Okay, Dad, you are literally staring.” 

Tony sits back in the passenger seat, exhaling with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry… this is just weird.” 

“How is it weird? You were the one who taught how to drive,” Peter says, giving a breathy laugh. “Do you want me to pull over? I’ll pull over and switch spots with you if you want.” 

Peter didn’t want to switch spots. He enjoyed driving, but if Tony wanted to be behind the wheel instead, he would let him. Tony laughs again, easing the tension a bit more. 

“No, it’s fine. I want you to drive,” Tony says. “You gotta practice driving. What better time to do it than taking the extra-long route back home.” 

Peter allows a smile to creep across his face. His grip loosens on the wheel, his white-knuckled grip becoming not so. What Tony was saying was true. Peter had only just gotten his license, and the city wasn’t always the best place to practice, so when his dad had come to pick him up at the beginning of winter break, Peter offered to drive them back to the lakehouse. 

So now, instead of staring, Peter watched as Tony busied himself by changing the music. They had been listening to some station centered in the city, but as they moved farther and farther from the hub, the music was being cut by static. 

“Christmas or the Beatles?” 

Peter spared a glance at Tony for a second, his expression confused. “What?” 

“Music wise,” Tony’s fingers hover over the dial. “You want Christmas or rock-n-roll?” 

“Those are basically on separate ends of the spectrum,” Peter laughs. 

“Just pick one!” 

“Fine,” Peter says, “Christmas. Don’t even know why it’s a question. It’s in five days.” 

“Right. Silly me.” 

Tony switches to the station and sits back. _“92.1 FM!”_ An over-enthusiastic voice says as the song fades out. _“Christmas, Christmas, Christmas! The holiday season is among us, and for those who celebrate, Christmas day is fast approaching! We are playing Christmas music 24/7 this week…”_

“Lordy,” Tony sighs, “you think this guy ever gets tired?” 

“Nah,” Peter says with a grin, “after his eleventh cup of coffee, his body only knows caffeine. He won’t sleep until he drops dead.” 

Tony snickers as the speakers pipe out the intro to Wham!’s “Last Christmas”. The song is overplayed, but it’s not Peter’s least favorite, so he hums along. 

Tony suddenly chuckles to himself from his seat, and Peter looks over to see his father typing something out on his phone. 

“What’s that?” Peter asks. 

“Texting Pep,” Tony says, flashing his screen towards Peter so quickly that the boy can hardly see what the messages say. “She says that Morgan is bouncing off the ceiling. She can’t wait to see you.” 

“Aww, tell her that I say hi to Mo.” 

“Will do,” Tony suddenly barks with laughter. “Now she’s insisting that Happy’s gonna dress up as Santa.” 

Peter laughs. “Yeah, right. Like that’s gonna happen.” 

“Totally. I don’t think I could even wrangle Happy into a Santa hat.” 

Peter smiles, his shoulders jumping with quiet laughter, and trains his eyes to the outside world. The sky was starting to darken, and Peter tampers down the growing panic of drinking in the dark. He knew that if Tony was here with him, he would be fine. 

If only that thought felt more reassuring. 

\----

It happens in a blur. 

One moment, they are driving in comfortable silence, way too cheery holiday music cycling through the vehicle, and then there is a shadow jumping from the forest and into the street. 

Peter’s first instinct is to hit the brakes. 

But the amount of snow on the road makes it so the tires have no traction. After realizing that breaking won’t work, Peter allows the car to coast quickly towards the deer literally caught in headlights and cuts the wheel sharply to the left. 

Beside him, Tony starts shouting words that make no sense strung together. Most of them go right over Peter’s head, as he’s too busy staring at the tree line they are careening towards. 

The car skips over the side of the road, flying front end first into the shallow ditch. Tony’s arms flail over as if he was trying to protect Peter from the oncoming crash. But the second the driver’s side of the vehicle hits the trees, Tony is flung back from the force of the airbag. 

Peter is about to cry out for his father when his airbag hits him square in the chest and his head is thrown back. 

Pain explodes across the left side of Peter’s body, and before he can even gasp, the world winks out. 

\----

As a minor-league superhero, Peter has gotten hurt more than he would like to admit. 

It also means that he had woken up injured more times than most humans. Usually, his senses crash into him like a tsunami. Pain, sight, sound… all of it filling his lungs in a suffocating wave of overwhelming _feeling._

But now, as awareness stains the inky dark of unconsciousness, sense came to him one by one. 

First was sound. Snowfall hitting the outside of the car, Peter’s advanced hearing making it so every snowflake sounds like a finger drumming on a tabletop. The speakers are still on, and distantly, Joni Mitchell’s “River” plays. A heartbeat, not his, but still equally familiar, beats slowly next to Peter. 

Then its sight. The world is unfocused at first, shreds of light cutting in amongst sheets of white. When his vision clears, Peter realizes that he’s still in the crashed car. His side of the vehicle is farthest from the road and outside it’s dark. The only light is from the headlights which are still on. 

And last is touch. Peter feels cold, and that’s most likely from a cracked window or the lack of heat, but it helps in slowing down his brain processing his pain. 

Because when the pain finally reaches him, it’s all-encompassing and cramps his stomach with nausea. Peter gasps, the main source of his agony being his left hip. 

With shaking hands, he reaches over and gently prods the area. A whimper gets lodged in his throat and lacking the courage to look, Peter scopes the space with touch. A huge piece of metal, most likely from the door -- again, he didn’t want to look just yet -- was sticking out of his body. 

As soon as the realization dawns on him, he can’t hold back the cry of fear. 

“Dad,” Peter whines, “D-- Dad…” 

Childlike need fills Peter’s head, and all he wants is a hug and someone to tell him it will all be okay. More specifically from the person who was sitting less than three feet from him. 

His vision was starting to go fuzzy, both from tears and the amount of pain, and with one last cry of, “Dad, _please,”_ Peter falls back into himself. 

Awareness fades faster than before. 

\----

When Tony wakes up, it’s all at once. 

“Peter!” He gasps, flying forward only to get thrown back against the seat by the seat belt. He groans, taking a second before looking over to his kid. 

From this angle, in the semi-darkness, Peter looks okay. He’s slumped in his seat, the deflated airbag lying in his lap, and his head resting on his door’s window. Tony reaches out a hand and brushes it across Peter’s cheek. 

“Pete?” Tony asks, “Hey, Bud?” 

Tony’s about to shake the boy’s shoulder gently when his son groans. 

“Peter?” Tony asks, unbuckling his seat belt and turning on the ceiling light. “You there?” 

“Da…?” Peter groans, “Dad…” The second one turns into a whimper, and dread fills Tony's chest. 

“I’m right here, Baby. What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” 

“My… My…” Peter struggles to open his eyes, and when he's finally looking at his dad through squinted eyelids, Tony can see the pain in them. “My side… _hurts.”_

Tony’s chest and lungs constrict in fear. He hasn’t heard Peter in this much pain in a long time. 

“Okay,” Tony says, speaking more to himself than his son. “Okay, okay. Let… let me just look, okay?” 

Peter’s expression is creased with discomfort, but he nods anyway. The kid’s hands were pressed around the part of his body that Tony couldn’t see that well, so the man had to lean over to get a better look. 

Luckily for him, he wasn’t hurt in the crash. Unluckily for Peter, all of the impact was on his side of the vehicle. 

Tony is careful when he leans over Peter’s body, and even when he blocks out most of the overhead light, enough is still visible for him to see the large piece of metal piercing the area above Peter’s hip. 

He holds back his gasp of shock, not wanting to frighten the already terrified boy more. 

Peter’s fingers cover most of the wound, shielding it from anything that might hurt him, and even though Tony doesn't want to look, he knows he has too to assess the injury. 

“Petey,” Tony says, looking up to his kid. He holds Peter’s chin gently in his grasp, turning the teenager’s head towards him. “Pete, look at me, Baby.” 

Peter slowly opens his eyes, the action taking more effort than it should, and Tony wants to cry at the amount of hurt swimming in his son’s gaze. 

“There he is,” Tony says, putting on a happy face. “There’s my boy.” 

Peter whimpers. _“Dad.”_

“I know, Kiddo, I know. I saw. But I need you to move your hands so I can know what to do to make this all better. Can you do that for me?” 

Peter looks hesitant. So as an alternative, Tony brushes his fingers against the back of Peter’s hand in offering. Before Tony can tell him that he can take his hand instead, Peter is grabbing onto his father’s arm with mighty strength. 

“That’s good,” Tony says, trying to keep his tone level. Peter hasn’t needed soothing like this in a while, but that doesn't mean Tony isn’t willing to give it to him. 

He’s actually surprised that Peter hasn’t started crying yet… or maybe Tony’s been spending too much time around five year old’s and their everyday tantrums. 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut once more when Tony starts to look over the wound. The door must have been broken by one of the trees their car is pressed against, as a large splinter of metal has broken through the interior and is now impaled in Peter. 

Tony remembers the accident with shocking clarity. The only thought that Tony had when they were sailing off the road was, _save Peter._ But then he was pulled back by his seatbelt and airbag so harshly that he couldn’t prevent his kid from getting hurt. 

If only he had driven. If only he had taken Peter’s deal not only twenty minutes prior. 

But now… 

“I’m sorry.” 

The crying of his child pulls Tony into reality. Tears run down Peter’s cheeks, his chest jumping painfully and with every sob, it must pull on his wound, because Peter winces. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Peter says, and Tony’s heart breaks. “This is my fault.” 

“No, no, no, Baby,” Tony quickly consols, leaning forward and wiping tears from his kid’s face. “This is no one’s fault. No one could have predicted that deer--” 

“I can! I have spidey-sense! I should have known it was coming!” 

“Pete, Bud…” 

“Now we’re in trouble and I caused it.” 

Tony knows that Peter isn’t in his right mind right now. But he also knows that Peter is self-sacrificial to a fault, and it is totally in his character to blame himself for this. So instead of trying to fight against a boy brinking on hysterics, Tony takes Peter into his embrace as much as he can and holds him close. 

“It’s alright, Babe,” Tony whispers, bringing Peter’s forehead to his. “None of this, and I mean none, is your fault. Even if you did know it was coming, there was too much snow and ice on the ground for the car to stop in time.” 

Peter sniffs, relaxing the slightest in his hold. 

Tony continues, “But we can think about all of that later, okay? Back when we are safe and warm and _not injured.”_

Peter nods. “Okay.” 

“Okay, amazing. The next thing is we gotta do is fix our biggest issue,” Tony brushes hair out of Peter’s eye. Underneath the kid’s bangs is a shallow cut crusted with blood, but Tony can fret about that later. “I know for a fact that that metal in your hip isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world.” 

Peter finally smiles, just a little, but it is quickly contorted by a wince of pain. 

“Maybe we can focus on my problem a little sooner than later,” Peter groans. 

“I was just about to say,” Tony responds with a small grin, instantly moving into action. 

\----

After a long-suffering ten minutes, they have the wound wrapped the best they can with a shirt from Peter’s bags. Tony knows enough to not try and remove the metal from Peter’s side (this isn’t anywhere close to his first rodeo), but his biggest concern is Peter’s healing factor kicking in and closing up around the pierced area. 

That would only make rescue and recovery that much more complicated. 

So once the bleeding is stopped as much as it will, Tony leans back and instantly starts looking for his phone. 

“What are you doing?” Peter asks through gritted teeth. 

“My phone,” Tony says, “I can’t find it.” 

He rifles through a bit of trash on his side of the floor. A coloring book Morgan left behind; a paper bag once holding fast food… but no phone. Without looking like he was panicking, Tony slips his upper body between the front two seats and starts sifting through the bags in the back. 

“Is it there?” Peter asks. 

Tony sits back down with a sigh, and that’s when he notices the familiar red of his phone case. He darts a hand between the seats where it was lodged and pulls out a rectangle of shattered glass and mangled metal. 

“Shit,” Tony says, putting the scrap down on the center console. “What about you, Pete? Where’s your phone?” 

“It’s dead.” 

“What?” 

“It died before we left the city. I don’t have a charger on me.” 

“Well, why didn’t you charge it before we left?” Tony asks, starting to let his panic show. 

“Because I didn’t have time,” Peter says, trying to stay calm. “I was gonna charge it at your place. I thought we would be okay, considering the fact that you _have a phone.”_

Tony huffs, but not in a way that's directed towards his son, before scouring his mind for another option. 

“Why doesn't FRIDAY just call home?” Peter asks. 

“This car isn’t equipped with FRIDAY,” Tony says dryly. “My other car doesn't drive well in the snow, so Pep recommended I take this one. I haven’t fine-tuned it yet.” 

“Well… fuck.” 

If Tony wasn’t edging towards a panic attack, he may have laughed at Peter’s use of the curse word. Instead, he turns to his last resort.

“We can put out a distress call on your watch,” Tony says. 

“What? It can do that?” 

“Well, usually the call only contacts me,” Tony says, “but if I don’t answer, it gets forwarded to your next emergency contact… which in this situation is May. Hopefully, she will get the distress signal and call for help.” 

Peter’s gaze gives away all of the fear he has been holding. “How long should that take?” 

“Usually it’s instantaneous,” Tony says, but then his gaze moves to the window and the world beyond. The world that is steadily beginning to be blotted out by heavy snowfall. “But in this weather… We can only hope.” 

Peter nods, and Tony reaches out and pushes a button on the kid’s watch. The screen of the device flashes a bright red three times, and Tony knows the call has been sent. With a frustrated sigh, he sits in wait, having no idea what to do next. 

\----

The cold starts seeping in not soon after Tony sends out the distress signal. 

Peter wished that he could hold off the chill for a bit longer -- or at least continue feigning the idea of warmth -- but soon enough, his teeth are chattering and his shoulders shake. 

Tony looks over sharply from where he was staring into space. With Peter’s hand in his, it’s easy for the man to notice the shivers wracking Peter’s body. Peter tries to stop them, but it only locks his joints and makes the experience more painful. 

“You cold?” Tony asks. 

_No,_ Peter wants to say, _it’s a new dance move. Thought I’d do it to fill the time._

But instead, all he does is give a jerky nod. 

That snaps Tony into attention. The man throws the upper half of his body towards the back seats and starts going through bags and belongings. He sits back with both of their winter jackets and wraps them around Peter like a blanket. 

It helps, but it isn’t the best. 

Peter presses his teeth together and tries to smile. “T-- T-- ‘hanks,” Peter chatters. 

“Okay, that did nothing,” Tony says. “I wanted to save energy, but… let’s see if this works.” 

He leans forward and turns the key in the ignition. The engine sputters for a few long seconds before the whole vehicle roars to life. Heat starts to fill the car and Peter relaxes, his seizing muscles releasing their hold on him. 

“That’s better,” Tony says, a smile forming on his lips. “We can keep that on for a bit.” 

“Only a bit?” 

Tony’s face falls, sympathy filling the cracks. “Sorry, Bud. Gotta do it in intervals. Don’t want to wear out the engine.” 

Peter understands, but it doesn't make him feel any better about it. “Sure,” he says, “of course, Dad.” 

When Tony reaches forward and cups Peter’s cheek with his palm, Peter leans into it without hesitation. The warmth from his hand is amazing, and a part of Peter knows that body heat is the best way to keep warm, but he’s not going to ask his dad to take off his shirt so that they can lay skin to skin. They aren't at _that_ point yet. 

“H-- how a… ar-- re you?” Peter shivers, trying to draw attention away from himself. 

Tony frowns slightly. “I’m fine, Pete. But this isn’t about me.” 

“Re--really, Dad, I’m _okay.”_

“Peter,” Tony says, switching into his Dad-Voice. 

Peter knows that Tony isn’t entirely fine. If it isn’t the fear of the situation getting to him, he must have some sort of injury. Possibly a minor concussion with the number of times he keeps spacing out. Peter just hopes that Tony will stay coherent enough until help arrives. 

“You don’t need to be worried about me,” Tony says. “I’m good. I promise.” 

Not a single part of Peter believes his father, but he’s also in too much pain to start a fight about their wellbeing. Between the two of them, Tony is far better off, so if Tony wants to spend his time fretting over his son, Peter wasn’t going to complain. 

Peter nods, Tony’s frown softening. 

“Let’s just concentrate on staying warm,” Tony says, running a thumb over the dried tear tracks on Peter’s face. “That’s what's important right now. That, and making sure we keep your injury under control.” 

Peter nods once more, leaning into his father’s touch and trying to take in as much warmth as he possibly can. 

\----

They were on their fourth cold spell when the engine refused to turn on. 

It was the sound of the car refusing to start that roused Peter. Tony focused all of his attention on staring at the key as the engine sputtered. 

“Wha’s happ…?” Peter slurs and Tony spares a glance over his shoulder. What he sees causes him to freeze. 

For the past forty minutes, Tony had taken the job of starting and stopping the engine in ten-minute intervals. Every time he had to turn the car off, Tony tried to shut himself down. He couldn’t handle just sitting there while his child shivered uncontrollably in the driver's seat. 

The heat only seemed to help a tiny bit, but not enough. 

Peter was getting worse. There was no denying that. In the limited light, Tony could see that the kid’s skin was sickly and pale, and a cold sweat had built up on his skin. Peter’s eyes were glazed and curls damp. 

“Bud,” Tony says, leaning forward and ignoring the fact that their vehicle refused to turn on. “Pete, look at me.” 

Peter turns his glassy gaze to his father. When he blinks, it’s slow and more exhausting than it should be. The boy hums, letting Tony know that he has his attention. 

“Hey,” Tony says, his voice changing in pitch. In any other situation, he would be afraid it would sound condescending, but when his kid looks like he’s barely hanging on… “How are you, Bud?” 

“The car,” Peter says, his eyes only half-open. 

“The car is fine,” Tony says, reaching forward and feeling Peter’s forehead. The kid was blazing. _“Shit.”_

“It’s cold… in… here.” 

“I know, I know,” Tony says, his mind running a mile a second. _Fuck, of course, he has a fever. He’s bleeding out in a car, and it’s all my fault._ “I’m-- I’m gonna fix it, Baby.” 

Peter makes a sound that is a mixture between a groan and a whimper. 

Tony doesn't waste any time. He plants a kiss on Peter’s forehead -- ignoring the heat rolling off of his child -- and takes his coat from Peter’s frame. 

Peter’s eyes fly open at the loss of warmth and stares up at his father in confusion. “Wha--” 

“I’m going to go and fix the engine,” Tony says, pulling on the jacket. 

Peter looks outside. “Snow…” 

“I’ll be fine,” Tony says, stealing one last glance at his kid before pushing open the door and heading out. 

He feels like he has stepped into Antarctica. The world is dark, completely clouded by thickly falling snow, and the blast of cold that hits him makes him freeze in place. If he thought inside the car was chilly… 

The snow is above his boots, his feet stuck in the powder, and pant legs becoming damp. “Keep going,” he tells himself with a puff of cold air. “For Peter. For Peter.” 

He takes one step, and almost falls over from a wave of vertigo. He remembers faintly hitting his head in the initial crash, but he wasn’t about to put a possible concussion above his son. 

Instead, he steadies himself on the car and waits for it to pass. When he can, he moves to the front of the vehicle and pushes aside the covering of snow that had settled on the hood. 

Inside, he can faintly make out Peter in his seat. The kid watches him intently with large, foggy eyes. He’s shaking, and that only snaps Tony into go mode. 

“For Peter,” Tony says, lifting the hood and squinting at the now exposed engine. “For Peter.” 

\----

Tony does what he can, although he knows that it’s not a lot considering he has no tools, his fingers are freezing off, and it’s pitch dark. 

He doesn't know how long he’s worked for, but by the time he closes the hood of the car, the sight of Peter inside the car makes Tony’s heart stop. Tony pushes himself through the kneehigh snow and rips open the passenger car door. 

Peter’s head is lolled forward, his eyes shut and breathing shallow. His front is stained with vomit, and the smell of the inside of the vehicle is sickening. His fever is out of control. 

“Pete,” Tony says quickly, leaning across the center console and laying a hand on his kid’s shoulder. “Baby, wake up.” 

Peter doesn't stir. That’s when Tony gets a whiff of blood. 

With shaking hands, he peels back the jacket draped over his son and catches sight of the crimson stain on Peter’s side. Peter has bled through the shirt they had wrapped around the wound, and tears quickly fill Tony’s eyes. 

“Baby,” Tony cries, his voice catching in his throat. “Baby…” 

Peter was going to die. Peter was going to die and it was Tony’s fault. If only he had driven the car… If only he had created a distress call with a stronger signal… If only he had looked at the forecast more carefully before coming, or making sure that Peter had charged his phone. 

The tears slip free from his eyes and slide down his cheeks. The heat of them painfully burns his cold cheeks. 

With a trembling hand, he reaches forward and tries the key, remembering why he had been out in the snow in the first place. The engine sputters for too long before Tony stops trying. 

“Fuck,” he sobs. He hits the dashboard angrily. “Fuck!” 

_Body heat,_ something in the back of his head reminds him. _Body contact is the most effective form of heat transfer._

Wiping away his tears, Tony nods along to the unspoken tip. He takes the keys out of the ignition and moves Peter’s jacket from his form. He then tries to still his trembling hands as he cuts Peter’s shirt away from him with the blade of the keys. 

Tony then removes his own shirt and maneuvers himself so he lies against his kid as much as he can. Peter’s body was a shock of heat against him, but Tony ignored how sweaty and flushed he was in favor of hoping he was doing something to help. 

He then pulls their jackets over both of them to trap the heat and keep him as warm as he can. 

“I’m here, Baby,” Tony says, tucking Peter’s head under his chin. “I’m right here.” 

Peter’s breath is a whisper on his collar bone. Tony buries his face in the boy’s curls and tries not to cry. It’s no use, and his tears are absorbed by his child’s sweaty locks of hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony chokes. “I’m so, so sorry, Bubba.” 

That’s the last thing remembers before there’s nothing. 

\----

_Tony._

_Tony, we’re here._

_Oh… oh my God, Peter…_

“No,” Tony mumbles. Then there are hands on him. 

Warm hands. Cold hands. _Too_ many hands. 

“Peter… is… hurt,” he says. “Be… careful.” 

_Okay, Tones._

_Okay, Bucky… his side! Watch the Kid!_

_You got it, Cap!_

_Tony._

_Tones._

“...Rhodey.” 

\----

Tony wakes up with Peter pressed against his side, and his wife at the foot of his bed. 

“He wouldn’t stop asking for you,” Pepper says, a fond smile on her lips. 

“Makes sense,” Tony says, looking down at the kid. He wraps his arms around Peter’s shoulders. 

Somewhere close by, there is the beep of a heart monitor, and that’s when he realizes they are in the Medbay at the compound. Peter looks significantly better. His cheeks are rosy, and the small cut on his forehead has been closed with a few butterfly bandages. 

“You know,” Pepper starts, drawing his attention, “I thought when you gave up the suit… I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about you not coming home again. But…” 

She laughs humorlessly, and that’s when Tony can see the tears in her eyes. 

“Pep,” He says, holding out an arm. “Come here, Love.” 

She wipes at her eyes with a second chuckle. “It’s fine. I’m fine, really.” 

“How long have I been out?” 

“Well, the guys found you yesterday,” Pepper says. 

“The guys?” 

“Rhodey, Bucky, and Sam. May got the distress call, and then we called them. It took them a bit longer to actually find the car, though. You were practically buried in snow.” 

Tony frowned at that. He knew it was true, but it didn’t help him feel any better about the situation. “What about Pete?” 

“His body went into septic shock,” Pepper says, her eyes softening as Peter snuffles in his sleep. “We rushed him into surgery and luckily for us, his healing factor worked in our favor this time. He’s gonna be fine.” 

Tony looks down at his son. “Has he been sleeping much?” Tony asks. 

“He got out of surgery and instantly asked for you,” Pepper says with a small smile. “We tried to get him to sleep, but he wouldn’t calm down until we brought him here.” 

“A little leech, this one is,” Tony says with a laugh. 

“Mmm-- Dad?” Peter mumbles, rousing and lifting his head. 

“Hey, Bubba,” Tony says with a smile. “Why are you awake?” 

“Why are _you_ awake?” Peter asks, rubbing an eye. 

“Because I wanted to see you.” 

“Gross,” Peter says, laying his head back down on Tony’s chest. “When did you get so sappy?” 

Pepper laughs. “I think it comes with having kids, Pete.” 

Peter sighs. “Well, stop it. I want old Tony back.” 

Tony pulls his son closer, keeping mind of his side, and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Too bad, Baby. I’m here for good, and you’re stuck with me.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, before saying, “I guess I’m good with that.” 

“Perfect,” Tony says, carding his fingers through his hair. “Now go back to bed, Bubba. You need the rest.” 

Pepper smiles. 

“Kay, night, Dad,” Peter mumbles, already half asleep. 

“Night, Pete. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, hi.  
> Thank you so much for reading this fic and hope you enjoyed it. I'm sorry that it took so long to get this out, but I have more time now, so I'm hoping that if you read any of my future works, I will update them more frequently.  
> (Keyword here: hoping) 
> 
> Also, sorry that I have written two winter/snow centric chapters in this. Blame the holiday spirit getting to me.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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